when we are hurt we say wild things striking back to ease the hurt within

inflicted by that heedless one, the unthinking

lover to whom in trust we have laid open

our finer selves, the sensitive core, the very flower of selfhood; entrusted to whose consideration

an enchantment of our possible powers

or is it only to be an exhaustion of them

is then my world to surrender unto yours

and is yours proven more the worthwhile one of a sort of superficial sampling

(or how am i ever surely then to know) me, bound-bitter to an idea and fixation spurning all close to me for a dearer person

now is not the season propitious unto love yet when shall favor be stronger in an unloving world?

one word the world does live for -or so claims never existing save in a space between the two of them

-pulled this way and that -and all-attracting. the world and life our sort do seek is the marginal actual or tentative, long-since or soon,

whose true title to the knowing--none needs to

name.

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